On vacation in Ireland (or possibly England, but I think it was Ireland) my father tripped over a trailer hitch and badly broke his ankle. He came home in an impressive cast—knee to foot—that well-wishers had extensively decorated. He pointed out one of the signatures to me. It was Arnold Palmer. The famous golfer was a fellow passenger on the airplane back to the U.S, and he signed the cast.
At the donut shop this morning, inexplicably displayed by the window, was a book entitled “Arnie”, written by someone named Tom Callahan. A biography, it would seem. No other books were on display, and the dining area offered little else to look at apart for the Ye Olde Gift Shoppe placard that I will describe in time.
If you roll a pair of dice over and over again, let’s say 100 times, some combinations are likely to appear more often than their probability would suggest. You might roll many more 2’s (snake eyes) than 12’s (box cars)–or vice versa. Seven is statistically likely to be the most common roll, but it may or may not be.
I apply similar logic to Arnold Palmer, who died back in 2016. He persists in the common culture to a degree that you wouldn’t expect, or at least that I don’t expect, nor can explain. Yes, I am referring to the widely-derided Trump rally in Latrobe, Pennsylvania, where the once-and-future President prattled onward for better than twenty minutes in a rambling, extemporaneous treatise on Latrobe’s native son, extolling him for all sorts of great qualities, including, remarkably enough, the size of his Johnson.
If some other state had taken the role of Pennsylvania in this election, we never would have borne witness to this particular tribute (if that’s the right word.) Had the hotly-contested electoral votes resided in, say, Maryland, we might have heard tell of the off-the-charts androgen levels of quarterback Johnny Unitas. If New Mexico, then we’d learn of the deep, robust chest hair of auto racers Al Unser and his brother Bobby. If North Dakota, it would have been the wunnerful, wunnerful testicles of Lawrence Welk.
But no, we got Pennsylvania and Arnold Palmer.
Why? Why should the Universe operate this way? I have no idea.
Which brings me back to the donut shop and the other object of interest displayed therein.
At stores of many types, you can find rustic wooden placards and ersatz crates and boxes printed with messages intended to be humorous, uplifting, ironic, or—Lord help us all—wise and meaningful. The donut shop displayed one such placard, which offered the following communiqué:
“All you need is love and coffee.”
Well, sure.
If the Beatles had been writing kiddy science textbooks, as I do, then their song would have been “All you need is food, air, water, and shelter.” If they had been economists, then the lyrics might have been akin to: “All you need is a robust economy, health insurance, retirement savings, an effective transportation system…” and so on.
But no, the Beatles were musicians, and let’s say romantics at heart, so they sang “All you need is love.” Paul once said that this message deserves to be their enduring legacy.
I’m extremely glad that the Beatles never sold out to the extent that “All you need is love and coffee” became the jingle for Folgers or Maxwell House.
Log onto YouTube and you can watch a video of the Beatles last-ever concert, that famous jam session performed on a rooftop in downtown London. You can watch and listen to the Fab Four, along with Billy Preston on keyboards, as they march through their final favorites, such as “Get Back” and “Don’t Let Me Down.” Joining them on the roof are a few onlookers and police officers, the latter seeming to bide their time before shutting down the whole thing. Which they do, eventually. John speaks a quip into the microphone, and that’s that.
Apparently, some of the businessmen in their offices in London had complained about the noise.
Can you imagine being one of those businessmen? Can you imagine having to live with that phone call of yours for the rest of your life, and to explain it to your children and grandchildren?
“Yup, I was across the street during that Beatles concert on the roof. I was busy trying to project earnings for the fourth quarter and identify possible cutbacks to expenditures. The music was really distracting so I rang up the local constable to complain.”
Geez.
Nevertheless, that concert was going to end at some point, whether by the Beatles’ choice or someone else’s. “All things must pass,” as George would sing in his solo career.
Did the Beatles ever meet Arnold Palmer? Internet research suggests the answer is no, which I find a little surprising. The Beatles had their moments with the sport of golf, as documented by a few stories and photographs, including a record cover. The Beatles also met up with many of their contemporary celebrities, some of them athletes, ranging from Muhammad Ali to Joe Garagiola. As for Arnie, he seemed to relish any and all publicity. He also enjoyed a variety of music, although his taste may have tilted toward country-western.
Let me mention that Massachusetts, or at least my section of it, west of Boston and north of Worcester, offers a variety of independent shops and small chains in the donut-and-coffee game. I was at Dipping Donuts in Leominster this morning, which should not be confused with the outlet for Dunkin’ Donuts down the street.
Dunkin’ is by far my region’s and the nation’s most widespread donut franchise, and their outlets are as clean and antiseptic and bloodless as most other successful enterprises in our country. I don’t recall ever seeing books or bric-a-brac of any kind on display at a Dunkin’. I don’t recall ever thinking up any interesting IDEAS at a Dunkin’. Nor am I especially fond of their food and beverages.
So I’m grateful for the independent donut shops.
Many forecasters—myself among them—predict the arrival of an unrelenting national shit show, due on January 20th for an engagement of at least four years, conceivably much longer. We the People seem sure to suffer, with possible moderate to heavy casualties, thanks to promised attacks on vaccinations and hydroxychloroquine to be shoved up our butts.
But I hold out hope that music, from the Beatles or anyone else, can help us persevere. Let’s expand the sentiment to include all forms of free expression, including fine art, dance and theater, community murals and sidewalk chalk artistry, and poems from all sorts of people who aren’t me, because my poems are pretty crappy. Free expression, we need it more than ever. No one ever praises dictatorial expression because it’s never any good. Propaganda may win a battle or two but has yet to endure. Beauty lies in truth.
There is nothing you can do that can’t be done.
Nothing you can sing that can’t be sung.
My father’s ankle injury never healed properly. He spent the rest of his days walking with difficulty due to the reduced movement, and he had to give up favorite activities like skiing and bike riding. But he managed his life well and lived it well for all his remaining years, finding joy and meaning wherever he could.
